


the road not taken

by professortennant



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen RPF, Chef RPF
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 02:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21129005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: “Do you ever wonder what if?”“I don’t like what if games, Claire,” he tells her, voice unusually sharp, a hint of warning. He stops rocking his chair, attention focused on her.It should stop her there. It should. But she hadn’t expected him in her family’s home, fitting in like he belonged, charming her mother, cooking with him in her kitchen. There’s been an attraction there, despite their attachments to other people. But it‘d been peripheral and harmless. Now, though, now she wonders.She pushes.“But what if,” she stresses.





	the road not taken

**Author's Note:**

> hey fam, so this fic is "canon" in the sense that brad is married in this fic and claire is attached. if that's not your jam and you prefer to live in AU/what if world where that is not the case, please wait like, 24 hours! I'm working on a sappy Thanksgiving fluffy fic in that world! 
> 
> BUT if you don't mind that and you like angst, keep reading!
> 
> I haven't put the warning on in a while, but casual reminder that this is all fake, no one actually believes this, etc and don't you dare send this to anyone at BA.

The witching hour is approaching when Chris announces he has a late-night craving for ice cream and espresso. After that, it only takes Molly’s enthusiasm, Tuna in her arms, and help from Andy to begin the chant of _ice cream! ice cream! ice cream!_

Claire laughs, tells them there’s a little shop just in town that’s open twenty-four-seven. Despite the gigantic meal they’ve just consumed and the way they were all all just bemoaning the tightness of their pants, it doesn’t seem to be a deterrent. Claire watches in fond amusement as everyone packs up their bags and rinses their wine glasses before dropping them in the sink, kissing Sauci Saffitz on the cheek and thanking her for her hospitality, and running for the doors towards ice cream and caffeine. 

She follows her coworkers and the BA crew out onto the front porch and watches as they climb into the white van, jockeying for specific seats (“Rick! I _totally_ called shotgun!” “I didn’t hear you say it, so it doesn’t count.” “What! That’s not fair!”). Warm affection floods Claire at the sight of some of her closest friends and coworkers, the people she sometimes leans on the most, acting like overgrown children on this faux-holiday: a BA Thanksgiving in August. 

“Yo, Morocco!” Beside her on the top step of the porch, Brad comes to a stop and digs the van’s keys out of his pocket and tosses them to his pal with a grin. “Make sure everyone gets back to the hotel safe, okay?”

Claire raises an eyebrow at him as Molly frowns, sticking her head out of the window and the evening breeze ruffling her hair in her best impression of Tuna. “Brad, you’re not comin’ for some scream?”

Brad huffs a laugh at Molly’s slang for ice cream and shakes his head, pointing a thumb his shoulder and back towards the Saffitz kitchen. “Well, I figured _someone_ should hang around here and help clean up the mess we made.”

Claire touches his elbow, softly. “Brad, you don’t have to stay. Go, have fun.”

“And leave you and your mom alone with that mess? No way, Claire. ‘Sides, I’m too full to even _think_ about eating.”

She looks uncertain but before she can say anything further, Brad’s already fleeting attention is diverted back to the van full of their friends where Andy is squabbling with Chris about driving rights. Claire waves at her friends-turned-family and heads back inside to the kitchen where her mom is working on the last third of dishes and pans, trusting Brad will find his way back into the house eventually. 

True to form, Brad comes into the kitchen a few minutes later, three full glasses of wine clutched in his hand.

“Mrs. S,” he says gallantly, handing Sauci a refilled glass before turning to Claire. “And Miss S.” 

She laughs, nose scrunching, and takes the glass. “Thanks, Brad.”

He leans against the counter and sips at his own glass of wine. “Okay ladies, put me to work. How can I help?”

To his delight, the Saffitz women boss him around, put him to work lifting the heavy-bottomed pans only used for holiday roasts up in the top cabinets above the fridge and moving giant stacks of ceramic plates to the extra storage units.

Sauci watches with a careful, thoughtful eye as Claire and Brad finish drying the last two plates in the sink. In the blink of an eye, Brad has a handful of suds and is flicking them at Claire who squeals and dances away with an outraged, “_Brad!”_

With the last plate washed, dried, and put away, Brad throws the towel over his shoulder and leans his elbows on the island, looking between the Saffitz women, twirling his wine glass in his hands. 

“Now what? Board games? Oh! I _love_ board games.”

Sauci laughs and shakes her head. “Oh, honey. This is the latest I’ve stayed up in ages and these old bones are crying out for sleep. I’ll leave you and Claire to lock up when you leave.” She kisses her daughter’s cheek, whispers something in her ear that Brad can’t hear but makes Claire go still, before coming over and—to his surprise—pressing a maternal kiss to Brad’s cheek as well, patting his cheek lightly. “You’re as wonderful a person as Claire’s always said, Brad, honey, and you’re welcome here any time you want.”

Brad beams at that and wishes the elder Saffitz a good night before turning to Claire, looking unbearably smug. “‘As wonderful a person as Claire’s always said,’ huh? You talk about me a lot, Claire?”

She blushes, takes a healthy gulp of wine, and avoids the question. He’s pulled a similar move—pretending not to hear her when she asks him for a drink or for his help doing something he doesn’t want to do—that she doesn’t feel guilty for doing the same for once. 

“Now what do you want to do? I can take you back to the hotel or…”

“Back to the hotel? Claire!” He raises his glass for her inspection. “I still have a lot of wine here to get through. Figured I’d stick around, maybe catch a glimpse of those famous Cape Cod stars. Unless—“ Suddenly, he looks unsure and stands to his full height. “Unless you want me to go?”

“No!” It’s immediate and knee-jerk and she closes her eyes, takes a breath, and opens them again with a grin. “No. Stay. C’mon.”

He happily follows her out onto the porch, wine in hand, where they settle into the white rocking chairs. They make the porch creak with their gentle motions and Claire sighs, stands and leans against the porch railing.

“Your sudden quiet thinkin’ wouldn’t have somethin’ to do with whatever your mom said to you in the kitchen, does it?”

She catches his eye over her shoulder, surprised that he’s bringing it up. Hesitating, she dances around the issue, leaving her answer just vague enough. “She just said something that made me think about something I haven't thought about in a long time.”

He raises an eyebrow at that, sips at his wine, continues to rock his chair back and forth with the ball of his foot. “You wanna clue me in or is it a secret?”

In her mind, her mother’s words echo: _He’s good for you, sweetheart. _

She licks her lips and lets the wine go to her head for once, lets herself ask the questions she’s been too scared to before. 

“Do you ever wonder what if?”

“I don’t like what if games, Claire,” he tells her, voice unusually sharp, a hint of warning. He stops rocking his chair, attention focused on her. 

It should stop her there. It _should_. But she hadn’t expected him in her family’s home, fitting in like he belonged, charming her mother, cooking with him in her kitchen. There’s been an attraction there, despite their attachments to other people. But it‘d been peripheral and harmless. Now, though, now she wonders.

She pushes.

“But _what if,_” she stresses. 

He stands and places his wine glass on the railing beside her, steps into her space and looks down at her. She shivers—from his proximity or the chilly summer air, she isn’t sure.

“Why don’t you ask me what you’re really wondering?”

She licks her lips, looks into his eyes which are simultaneously bright and dark, completely focused on her.

“If we had met earlier, before—_before_. Would we be something?”

She regrets the question almost as soon as she asks it. It’s a pointless exercise—nothing about their situation will change. But, still, she wants to know.

“Don’t you wanna know? If we’re missing out on something _important?_”

“No.”

It stings, the slamming of the door on their maybe, more than she thought it would. The sharp jab of hurt behind her heart is a good reminder why this is a terrible conversation to have. They shouldn’t be having it in the first place. 

It must play out on her face because he’s there, shuffling his feet and standing closer than he should, than he’s _allowed_. 

“Shit, Claire. No, not like that. It’s like—“ He searches for the words that he struggles to find on the best day. “It’s like you’re locked up here.” He puts a hand over his heart. “And I can’t open that lock, you know? I don’t need that road open to me, us. That’s not our road, Claire. Universe had other ideas.”

And she knows that the universe gave her a fantastic boyfriend and him a beautiful family but it still feels like the universe stole something from her, too. It’s an uncomfortable feeling for someone like her, someone who gets what she wants.

“That’s not fair,” she whispers into the sticky summer night. She doesn’t like this kind of whine in her voice: petulant and stubborn. 

His pinky teases the edge of her hand in comfort, slides his hand closer to hers on the railing.

“I know. But them’s the breaks, Claire.”

She licks her lips and looks at their hands on the porch railing, his pinky finger the size of her whole hand, and takes a deep breath and decides for once in her whole life to be reckless. 

Her hand covers his, fingers curling around his and working their way between the gaps of his fingers until they’re woven together. She hears his sharp intake of breath but he doesn’t pull away. 

“Claire,” he warns, voice husky. But he doesn’t stop her when she steps between him and the railing, looks up at him from beneath lowered lashes, bottom lip between her teeth.

“There’s gotta be something here,” she insists, almost desperately. Maybe it’s the wine or the desire to prove the universe wrong, but she needs to know if being with Brad would be as electric as she sometimes thinks it would be. “Everyone sees it: my mom and then the YouTube people—“

“Hey,” he interjects sharply. “I told you to stay away from the comments.” He knows how sensitive she is to critique and it’s in her own best interest to stay away. 

She rolls her eyes and smiles softly at his protective attitude. “I’m just saying,” she reiterates, squeezing their joined hands lightly “I just,” her voice drops to a whisper as she pushes herself onto her tiptoes, free hand sliding up his chest. “Want.” Her lips are a hair’s breadth from his and she can almost taste him, can smell the wine on his breath. “To know.”

He is unbelievably, stonily still when her lips brush against his for the first, last, and only time. Her heart thinks so hard beneath her chest she thinks he surely must be able to feel it. It’s a mistake, it’s all a horrible mistake.

And then—and _then_.

He comes to life beneath her touch. He cups her cheek, fitting almost all of her face into the palm of his hand, before sliding it down the length of her neck, thumb pressing into her pulse point where it thuds in time with each gentle brush of their lips. 

He kisses her back with an aching, bittersweet tenderness that she hadn’t expected from him. She feels fragile in his hands, protected and soft. 

But she can feel heat coiling low in her belly, spreading to her fingertips and making her itch to press closer, to slide her tongue against his, to make him lose control and force his touch to turn rough, to make him grip her hips and yank her to him, all heat and frantic energy. 

But the chaste, short kiss ends with the gentlest flick of his tongue against the plushness of her bottom lip before he pulls away. 

To her surprise, they’re both out of breath—not from the kiss, she realizes. But from the effort of holding themselves back. A small whimper of want escapes her and he closes his eyes against it, presses their foreheads together, noses brushing softly.

“Now we know,” he tells her, thumb stroking her neck softly for the last time. 

She licks her lips and nods, scratches her hand over his bicep and chest. “Now we know,” she echoes. 

When he steps back, the summer night feels too cool and calming. She wants him pressed against her again, wants his hand on her throat and his mouth on hers and his bright eyes telling her the universe is the only thing keeping them apart. 

But that’s not their path. 

She laughs to cover her nerves and he does the same, runs a finger over the rim of his wine glass and doesn’t meet her eyes. They _know_ but she doesn’t want to know at the expense of their friendship. 

(Even if she now knows that this fingertip is callused and if he ever dragged a circle on her skin the way he’s doing to that wine glass, she’d be weak-kneed and mewling for him.)

She takes the beer from his hands and ducks her head, forcing his eyes to hers. 

“Friends?”

Her heart is in her chest because what if this fucked everything up. He’d said no, terrified of that would happen if they’d pick the lock on Pandora’s box. 

But then he smiles at her, all toothy grin and crinkles at the eyes, and nods. 

“Always, Claire.”

And that is enough. 


End file.
